


Upset

by LaughtersMelody



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, One Shot, Quarter Quell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8667760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughtersMelody/pseuds/LaughtersMelody
Summary: Maysilee Donner becomes the Victor of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, the Second Quarter Quell, and the effects of her victory ripple throughout Panem for years to come. AU. One-Shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I post on FF.N under the name Ani-maniac494, and decided to give AO3 a try, so if you've seen this story before, please don't worry about the alternate author's name. :)
> 
> I've gone with the fandom tradition of giving Katniss's mother a flower-based name and Peeta's father a bakery-themed name, but there are only so many names in those pools to choose from. If any other authors have named their characters the way I did, please know that my portrayal of their characters is in no way meant to infringe on yours, and any similarities are completely unintentional.

** Upset **

Maysilee Donner almost dies in a flurry of pink feathers.

It's close - closer than she wants to think about, because when the attack is over, there's a cut on her throat that's showering her in a curtain of red and she's scrambling to stem the flow. It's not enough to be deadly, not if she can get the bleeding under control, but if the cut was just a little deeper - or if she'd lost her footing when those bird mutts had swarmed her - she probably wouldn't be thinking about anything at all right now. Still, if the situation weren't so serious, she might have laughed.

She remembered being nine-years-old, pouting about the pink dress her mother had asked her to wear because pink was for little girls, for everything frilly and delicate and _cute_ , and the nine-year-old version of herself hadn't wanted to be any of those things.

Maysilee is pretty sure that if she makes it out of this, she'll never want to wear pink again, but for very different reasons.

Drawing a deep breath, she keeps one hand pressed to her neck and starts searching for something she can use as a bandage. When her eyes fall on her shirt, it only takes her a second to decide. She pulls out the small knife she has stashed in her boot and cuts into the black fabric around her midriff, freeing a thick strip of cloth. The end result means that she's showing more skin than she's really comfortable with - especially with all of Panem watching - but it's certainly better than bleeding to death.

She puts the knife back in her boot, then wraps the cloth around her throat as tightly as she can stand, continuing the pressure with her fingers. She hopes it will be enough, because she's starting to feel dizzy already, and she's not sure how much more blood she can actually lose before the symptoms get worse. Falling over now is the last thing she needs, so she stumbles to a nearby log and sits down hard, trying to ignore the way her muscles are shaking.

Eventually, the world stops wavering in front of her eyes, and she feels clear-headed enough to start taking stock of her other injuries. She winces at what she sees. The wound on her throat is definitely the most serious, but the rest of her skin looks like it's been through the cheese grater her mother owns. There are shallow cuts peppered all over her arms and legs, and judging by the way her face stings, it didn't fare much better. But it could have been worse. _So much worse_ , she thinks, spotting a pink feather that's still tangled in her hair. She plucks the feather out and tosses it aside, suppressing a shudder.

She's not sure how long she sits there, pressing on her makeshift bandage, crimson drying in sticky rivulets on her skin, but it's long enough that the bleeding from her neck finally slows. It hasn't stopped completely, and she's worried about reopening the wound, but this late in the Games, she knows that she needs to start moving again, sooner rather than later.

A boring Tribute is a dead Tribute, after all.

So, she cautiously pushes herself back to her feet and looks around, trying to figure out where she is in the arena. She'd stopped thinking about anything at all when she'd been fleeing from those mutts, and she has no idea if she'd been running in circles or a straight line, but it's not hard to see where she'd come from - there's a trail of pink feathers and a few dead birds marking the path she'd taken.

She stares at the remains of the mutts for a moment, then turns around and starts heading in the opposite direction, moving as quickly as her unsteady legs will allow. She still wants to get as far away from Haymitch as she can - the Gamemakers will probably force them together if they both live long enough, but she doesn't want to tempt fate in the meantime.

A breeze drifts through the arena suddenly, hitting the newly-exposed skin of her stomach, and she shivers. She doesn't stop walking, though. She's not really sure what she's doing, beyond putting some distance between herself and Haymitch. Just the same, it's not good to look like she's aimless, and if she keeps going, hopefully it will at least _seem_ like she has a plan.

She keeps walking until she hears the cannons, and then her steps falter.

Two cannons. Not one, but two. Maybe two tributes had killed each other, or maybe the Gamemakers were getting impatient for the finale and they'd decided to narrow down the playing field.

Either way, she's now made it to the final three.

Maysilee swallows hard.

Is Haymitch in the final three with her? Or had one of those cannons been for him?

She almost hopes that he's gone, and she hates herself for it, but while she doesn't want him dead, she wants to be the one to kill him even less. Her hand tightens on the strap of her blow gun until she feels the rough material digging into her palm, the weight of the weapon suddenly much heavier where it rests on her shoulder.

 _You have an advantage_ , some dark corner of her mind whispers. _You wouldn't have to get close…and at least it would be quick._

She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to will the voice away. She only partially succeeds.

She doesn't open her eyes again until she hears a soft chiming sound nearby.

 _A parachute_.

She blinks in surprise, then hurries over to it. It landed in a small outcropping of rock, the silver fabric snagging on a shrub at the last moment, and she has to untangle the cord before she can open the container that's attached. She's expecting it to be some sort of weapon or maybe some antiseptic and actual bandages, but instead, there's a tin of cookies like the ones she saw on the train to the Capitol, and a canister of orange juice, the fresh kind that's too expensive to import to Twelve. She stares at them for a long moment, but then she shrugs and sits down on the nearest rock, already starting to eat. With only three tributes left, she's pretty sure that no one is close enough to bother her right now. Besides, food is food, and even if it's not water, the orange juice will still quench her thirst.

She doesn't try save any - at this stage of the Games, there's just no point - and by the time she's done, her stomach is more full than it has been in days, and she feels less like her legs are going to give out if she pushes herself too hard.

She's still savoring that fullness when she hears it: rusting in the branches in the trees around her…the sound of claws scrapping along the bark.

She looks up and her throat goes dry.

Squirrels. The trees are filled with dozens and dozens of squirrels - abnormally large squirrels with fluffy, golden fur and sharp teeth…teeth clearly meant for ripping and tearing flesh, not cracking acorns and chewing on nuts.

Maysilee feels the sudden, absurd urge to laugh.

First pink birds and now fluffy squirrels. What's next? Killer bunnies?

Her amusement doesn't last long. The squirrels are watching her intently, poised on edges of the branches, their ears and tails twitching, and the moment seems to hang there, suspended in time, like all of Panem is holding its breath, or maybe it only feels that way to Maysilee.

The instant she turns around and sprints from the rocks, everything seems to speed up. She hears the squirrels behind her, chattering excitedly. They don't stay in the trees, but dart quickly to the ground, scurrying effortlessly over the earth.

Maysilee doubles over as she runs, trying to grab the knife in her boot, but she misses it twice before she actually manages to wrap her fingers around the hilt. By then, she's slowed down enough that the squirrels have reached her. One of them leaps forward, latching onto her calf, its sharp claws sinking into the muscle, and Maysilee screams, jabbing the knife down blindly. The squirrel gives a shriek of its own and lets go.

Fresh blood trickles down her leg, but she barely feels it, adrenaline masking the pain and giving her another burst of speed. The arena rushes past in a blur, and she's already gasping for air, her heart pounding so hard in her chest that it hurts, but the squirrels are still right behind her so she keeps going.

She's so focused on running that she doesn't realize where she's headed - where she's being _herded_ \- until she's almost at the edge of the arena. When she reaches the tree line, the squirrels suddenly scatter, fading back into the forest like they'd never been there in the first place.

Maysilee slows, taking great desperate gulps of air, her chest heaving, but the knife is still clutched tightly in her hand and she's so tense that she's practically vibrating. She jumps when she hears a yell - a hoarse, pained cry - but she's still able to recognize his voice.

 _Haymitch_.

She finds herself running forward again before she's even thought about what she's doing.

It doesn't take her long find them…Haymitch and Ruby, the girl from District One. They're not far from the cliffs that Maysilee had seen with Haymitch earlier, and there's no cover for Maysilee to hide behind, but neither Ruby or Haymitch notice her approach - they're too caught up fighting each other.

Haymitch is stumbling away from Ruby and getting closer to the edge of the arena, one arm pressed tightly against his belly, and it's obvious that he's hurt, and it's _bad_ , because Maysilee can see the river of red soaking into his t-shirt and pants all the way from here. Ruby's not in great shape either, given the hand she has pressed over what used to be her left eye, blood still trickling through her fingers.

Seeing her chance, Maysillee moves.

She slips her knife back into her boot and tugs her dart gun free of her shoulder, loading it with one of the few darts she has left. Then she raises it to her lips, aims, and fires.

Ruby is sneering, ready to throw the ax she holds when the dart hits her in the neck. She blinks in confusion as the fast-acting poison takes effect and she falls limply to the ground, her ax clattering noisily beside her. She spasms once, twice, and goes still.

Maysilee ignores the cannon that signals the District One girl's death and rushes over to Haymitch who's fallen to his knees. He sways just before she reaches him and then he slowly topples forward into the dirt.

Maysilee's breath catches in her throat and she drops to her knees beside him, turning him over onto his back. She tries to be gentle, but it obviously isn't enough because she gets a low, pained groan in response, and it brings furious tears to her eyes.

A couple of those tears fall when she gets a better look at his wound.

If it seemed bad from a distance, it's a hundred times worse up close. She's not even really sure how he's still breathing, not when Ruby's ax had sliced so deeply into to his abdomen that it's not just _blood_ trying to spill out. She swallows hard at the sight, feeling the burn of the bile in her throat, and a soft, choked sound escapes.

Haymitch stirs a little at that, his eyes fluttering open and focusing blearily on her face. He stares at her for a long moment, somehow looking both sad and relieved at the same time. Then, he reaches out and latches onto her hand, squeezing it hard, and she squeezes back, wanting him to know that she's there, that she's not going anywhere.

She owes him this, at least.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, her voice thick.

And she is.

She's not sorry that she's going to win, because she wants to live _so badly_ , wants it with the sort of ferocity that she didn't know existed inside of her, but she's sorry about what that means for Haymitch. If she had died and he had somehow beaten Ruby, then he would be the Victor now and the Capitol would be rushing him out of the arena for emergency surgery. (She's even more sorry that she's desperately relieved it happened this way, that he's already dying and she won't have to make the choice between his survival and hers.)

Almost like he knows what she's thinking, Haymitch's grip tightens on her hand, his thumb stroking over her knuckles. 

The gesture brings a fresh round of tears to Maysilee's eyes, but she fights them back. Haymitch must be in agony, but he's barely making a sound, his jaw set in a stubborn line. He won't let his death be any more of a spectacle than it already is, and if he won't give the Capitol the satisfaction, then neither will she.

A minute passes and then another, and Maysilee feels every second drag across her skin like sand from an hourglass. Her senses have suddenly been magnified tenfold, and everything is brighter, sharper, more vivid. She sees the green of the grass beneath them, and the red that's slowly pooling around Haymitch, soaking into her pants where she kneels. She hears her own heartbeat in her ears, a strange counterpoint to the rasping noise Haymitch makes with every struggling breath. Her nose is filled with the coppery scent of blood mixed with the sickeningly sweet scent of the flowers that fill the arena.

The spell is broken when Haymitch gasps, his back arching and blood bubbling past his lips. He struggles for a few seconds, the muscles in his neck cording before his eyes roll, his gaze leaving hers to focus on a point somewhere over her shoulder.

He goes limp abruptly, his head lolling, the pressure from his hand disappearing.

His cannon sounds a moment later.

The blast seems to echo in the marrow of her bones, and Maysilee barely hears the trumpets announcing her as the winner of the Second Quarter Quell.

When the hovercraft arrives, it takes the Capitol personnel ten minutes to convince her to let go of Haymitch's unresponsive hand.

* * *

Maysilee sees Haymitch again after the Games - every night in her dreams.

That sort of thing is normal, her mentor assures her, and that makes her want to laugh, because Ricksen Humphries has spent thirty-seven years as District Twelve's only Victor, and his idea of "normal" is more than a little warped.

Not that she's any judge.

She can't even remember what normal is supposed to be right now. Everything seems foreign, strange. Even her skin feels like a garment that's shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit right anymore.

Being back in District Twelve only makes that worse.

Everyone had celebrated her return like a holiday, but that doesn't change how they all look at her now - the wariness in their eyes, the way they hesitate to move closer to her than absolutely necessary.

Her family is one of the few exceptions to that, but there's still something different about the way they treat her. When her nightmares are at their worst, they act like she's so fragile that she could shatter at any moment, but sometimes, when they accidentally startle her, it's like she's a blade they need to handle with care lest they cut themselves on her sharp edges.

It makes her miss the way things used to be, but that makes her feel guilty, because even if things aren't the same, at least she's alive to experience it. She has her family, and they still have her - whatever is left of the girl she used to be, anyway.

The other families were left with a body to bury instead…like the Abernathys.

She'd made sure that she was there at the train station when Haymitch's remains were turned over to his family, though she'd been careful to stay out of sight, knowing that she was probably the last person they'd want to see. But she'd felt like she owed it to Haymitch somehow. She'd been there when he died, and it seemed only right that she make sure he got home.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of her had hoped that it would be enough to stop Haymitch from haunting her dreams.

It wasn't. If anything, the dreams got worse because now almost every dream she has about Haymitch ends with the devastated expression she saw on Ingrid Abernathy's face.

Still, in a strange way, Maysilee's glad that she did it, because now she knows what her family would have faced if she died. And, if anything, she'll be better prepared for what she'll be dealing with next year, when she's mentoring.

Maysilee tries not to think about that too much, though, tries not to calculate how many kids she'll be escorting to their deaths in the future. Instead, she just keeps moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, like she had in the arena.

It helps that, at first, she has a lot to distract her.

There are interviews almost every day, both over the phone and in person, and the journalists all seem enthusiastic, ecstatic even, to be interviewing the Victor of the Second Quarter Quell. But as time goes by, she starts to see that their enthusiasm is a little forced, and gradually, she realizes why.

She isn't the kind of Victor they wanted.

They'd wanted vicious, feral Ruby, or Haymitch, with his sharp wit and sharper knife. Maysilee…she'd killed five other tributes, but every kill she'd made had been from a distance, and they'd all been quick and relatively bloodless. Even at the end, when she'd had the chance to take out her last opponent, to kill him and claim her victory that much faster, she hadn't.  She'd held his hand while he died instead.

Sure, the media praises her for her ingenuity and endurance, and they talk about how clever her strategy was, but that doesn't change the fact that she didn't put on the sort of show they'd been hoping for, especially from a Quarter Quell.

Her victory just wasn't dramatic enough. It was, in their eyes, pretty dull.

"That's a good thing," Ricksen tells her when she brings it up. "Trust me. Be boring. Unremarkable. Let them forget you."

Maysilee does her best to make that happen.

For every interview, she stays quiet when at all possible, and when she does have to speak, she keeps her responses as bland and generic as she can, never too smart or too witty, or too… _anything_. When Twelve's stylists aren't dressing her, she wears the most muted colors she has in her new, Capitol-given wardrobe, plain outfits of somber blues or light grays that her mother says make her look washed out. (She never wears pink of any shade - she burned all the pink she could find just a few days after she got home.) She takes to wearing her hair up too, instead of down the way she likes it, harsh styles that make her forehead look too big and exaggerate her small chin.

She's careful not to make any of it seem intentional, careful to be as accommodating and cooperative as she can, so that no one can accuse her of trying to shirk her duties as a Victor. In a way, that only helps solidify just how _boring_ she is. She's not the sort of Victor who will ever be the subject of wild rumors and juicy gossip, not the kind likely to be found hanging out in clubs or partying the night away. She's perfectly dutiful, absolutely conscientious.

Soon, adjectives like "soft-spoken," "mild," and "understated" start showing up a lot in the articles about her. In the Capitol, those are practically synonymous with bland, tiresome, and unappealing, so it's not surprising that, as the weeks pass, the steady stream of reporters coming to Twelve slows to a trickle.

Still, there's one thing - just one thing - that the reporters seem to find interesting about her, and that's her Mockingjay pin, because it's apparently become some sort of fashion statement in the Capitol. (If they only knew the meaning of the symbol they're so casually flaunting.) Right now, the pin is getting more press coverage than she is, and Maysilee's absolutely fine with that. Of course, there's one downside to it all: fewer interviews means more time to think.

She tries to find other things to distract her instead.

She asks about going back to school and learns that she's not allowed to attend classes anymore, which is more disappointing than she expected it to be. She enjoyed school for the most part, but she'd always reveled in the chance for some time off. Now, with nothing but mandatory "leave" looming ahead of her, she's tempted to ask Madilyn if she can do her homework.

She assumes that working on her "talent" is supposed to make up for what she's missing, to fill her endless days and even longer nights, but it doesn't. (She'd picked embroidery because she'd always enjoyed it before, but now, sewing doesn't let her do anything _except_ think, and the needles always morph into darts in her hands.)

Playing with her canary doesn't work either because even though his feathers are the same bright yellow they've always been, she can't help but see the pink feathers of the mutts that attacked her in the arena. It's not fair to the little bird whose singing used to brighten her days, so she gives him to her sister. (Madilyn doesn't really seem to understand why Maysilee is doing it, but she promises to take good care of him anyway.)

In the end, Maysilee finds the distraction that she needs in Town. Victors aren't allowed to work either, so she can't help her parents at the sweet shop, but she walks there with them in the mornings anyway, and sometimes, they run into Brent Everdeen as he's returning from the forest. When that happens, Maysilee buys everything she can from him, and then she runs home to put the meat in the refrigerator.  (Later, when it's time for lunch or maybe dinner, she takes a perverse sort of pleasure in cooking the squirrels that he hunted.)

After watching her parents open the sweet shop, Maysilee usually spends the rest of her mornings in the Cartwrights' store. Shoemaking isn't the most riveting process, but she finds it strangely soothing, and it's nice to be around a familiar face. Cal Cartwright is a couple years older than she is, and joined his father full-time in the shop a few months ago, when he turned eighteen. He's almost perpetually cheerful, and he talks to fill the silence, meaning that Maysillee doesn't have to say much at all. (Cal and his father both seem puzzled by her presence, but they aren't about to ask a Victor - someone capable of paying for every shoe in the shop - to leave, and Maysilee doesn't feel like explaining what she's doing there.)

In the afternoons, when her sister and best friend are done with school for the day, she heads over to the bakery. There, at least, she can pretend for a little while that nothing has changed. After all, Graham Mellark has been courting Aster for what feels like forever, so even before the Games, Aster would come up with excuses to visit him. Not that Maysilee or her sister ever complained when Aster dragged them to the bakery - Graham has a habit of giving away free samples when he's working, and he's even more generous when Aster is nearby.

Their conversations are a lot more stilted these days, and Graham doesn't seem to know how to act around her, but it's still familiar, and on the days when Aster and Graham are too wrapped up in each other to worry about her, it's actually fun. It becomes even more entertaining when Maysilee notices the way Gregor Undersee starts frequenting the bakery himself, his eyes lingering on Madilyn more often than not, and for a little while, life doesn't seem so bad. Maysilee can't say that she's doing great - she's pretty sure that any possibility of "great" died with the Games - but she is, for the most part, okay. She's dealing, slowly adapting to this strange, new reality.

Then, out of the blue, her sister starts getting headaches.

They're not terrible at first - nothing a little extra rest won't cure. But they get worse. In a couple months, they're crippling migraines that leave Madilyn in bed for days, the pain so severe that only a heavy does of morphling can ease it.

That's when the card arrives.

It's a get-well card with a picture of Maysilee's Mockingjay pin on the cover, and it's addressed to her…from President Snow. Maysilee opens it slowly, her hands shaking. The message is handwritten, and she swallows hard at the scent of blood that infuses the ink.

 _Miss Donner_ , it begins, _I must congratulate you. Right now, it seems as though you will have few, if any, demands for your company. While this isn't ideal, I am willing to let things stand as they are. However, I do have one area of concern._

_The symbol you wore in the arena has a particular meaning, one which might be misconstrued by certain undesirable elements in our society. Unfortunately, this symbol has become rather pervasive since your victory, and I think we can both agree that it's in everyone's best interests to remove any lingering vestiges of a rebellious image._

_Rebellion, after all, only causes pain for those we love._

_My best wishes for your sister's recovery._

_Sincerely,_

_President Snow_

Maysilee knows enough to read between the lines, and she barely makes it to the bathroom before she's retching up the squirrel meat she had for dinner, the card still clutched in her hands. She collapses on the tile floor when she's done, curling against the tub with her arms wrapped around her legs, her face buried in her knees, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Her mother finds her like that a little while later, but Maysilee ignores her worried demands for an explanation and stumbles up to her sister's room, crawling beside her in bed, desperate apologies falling from her lips.

"I'm sorry, Maddy, I'm so sorry. It's my fault. I shouldn't have worn that pin. I'm sorry."

Madilyn, lost in a haze of morphling, doesn't hear any of it.

The next day, Maysilee contacts a jeweler in the Capitol and sends him her pin, asking him to melt it down and recast it into a stylized version of the Capitol's seal.

A couple months later, when her Victory Tour roles around, she wears the pin every day, pointedly telling anyone who will listen that she had it changed because she'd wanted a way to express her gratitude for all the Capitol had done for her and her family. The media calls it a wonderful, patriotic gesture, and the Mockingjay fashion craze slowly fades into memory.

Madilyn's headaches don't go away after that, but they do improve enough that she's no longer trapped in bed for days, and she doesn't need the morphling often.

The guilt Maysilee feels, though - that stays behind.

She keeps spending time in Town, because now, more than ever, she needs something else to think about, but she finds it harder and harder to look her sister in the eyes. Madilyn is obviously hurt by the way she's acting, but Maysilee just doesn't know how to fix it, and she just can't bring herself to tell her the truth.

She lets the distance grow instead, because it's better this way - being close to her is dangerous.

President Snow taught her that.

* * *

"We've really got to stop meeting like this," Haymitch says.

Maysilee knows it's a dream because Haymitch is standing in her living room in her house in the Victors' Village, and he looks perfectly healthy except for the gruesome wound splitting his abdomen. He's leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, blood slowly dripping down his front and onto the hardwood floor.

Maysilee tries to ignore it.

"Stop coming here then," she retorts.

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "It's not up to me, you know. This is your head, not mine."

Maysilee doesn't have an answer for that, so she stays quiet. She's sitting on the couch by the fireplace, her Mockingjay pin in her hand. It looks the way it used to, with its wings extended and an arrow in its beak, except there's blood on it too, drops of red that Maysilee tries to rub off with her thumb.

It doesn't work.

Haymitch pushes off the wall and walks over to her, trailing crimson as he goes. He leans over her shoulder to stare at the pin for a long moment and shakes his head.

"You just had to wear that, didn't you? Had to make a statement."

Maysilee's hand tightens around the pin; the points of the wings dig into her palm.

"I thought I had nothing to lose."

"There's _always_ something to lose, even if it's just your life. Not that you have much of one now." Haymitch cocks his head. "Except you're not the one paying the price this time, are you?"

Maysilee feels the words like a blow and tears sting her eyes.

"I didn't know what they would do. I thought that if anyone would get hurt, it would be me."

Haymitch snorts. "So much for that theory."

Maysilee ignores the sarcasm and lets her fingers uncurl, switching the pin to her left hand and examining the indentation left behind in the skin on her right. She traces the pattern slowly with her finger tip.

"No one else should suffer because of me," she manages at last, her voice thick. "I can't let this happen again."

"So don't. Protect them."

He says that like it's so simple, and Maysilee turns to look up at him, surprised enough that, for a moment, it doesn't matter that this is a dream.

"How?" she demands. "How do I do that?"

"Same way you're protecting your sister."

Maysilee thinks about that for a long time, about the strained silences cropping up between her and Madilyn, about the way the hurt in her sister's eyes is slowly morphing into anger.

They exchanged no more than a handful of words yesterday and that was it.

Could she really deal with that from everyone?

Maysilee swallows hard. "I don't know if I can."

Haymitch shrugs. "Well, look at it like this: if the Capitol kills them all to punish you, you'll still be left by yourself. At least this way, the people you care about might actually have a chance. They might live. Besides, it's not like they really want you around anyway."

Maysilee is on her feet in a second, and she spins to face him, her fists clenched at her sides. "How could you know that?" she snaps. "You're not even real. You're _dead_."

Haymitch only smirks, the same dark smirk she saw in the arena. "Jealous, sweetheart?" he taunts.

And maybe she is.

* * *

Four years and eight dead tributes.

That sums up the 51st, 52nd, 53rd, and 54th Hunger Games. For half a second, Maysilee wonders if the 55th Games will be different.

They're not.

She and Ricksen return to Twelve with two coffins in tow, and a few days later, she finds Ricksen slumped over his kitchen table, his skin the dull, gray color that only death can produce.

It was a heart attack, they say. Maysilee believes it…mostly. There will always be that shadow of doubt. But as far as she knows, the Capitol had no reason to want him dead.

His funeral is televised, so all of District Twelve is expected to turn out to show their respect for their beloved Victor. (If attendance weren't mandatory, then Maysilee is pretty sure that she and her family and old Mayor Wilson would have been the only ones there.)

Being the only living Victor in Twelve means that the next year, when Maysilee comes back from the 56th Hunger Games with two more dead tributes, Twelve lays their deaths squarely at her feet, calling her a failure and demanding to know why she couldn't bring one of them home.

Maysilee uses it as an excuse to stop spending time in Town, and most people seem happy to leave her alone. But, there are a few people who decide to visit her instead.

Graham Mellark shows up once or twice - probably at Aster's behest - and spends a few minutes in the foyer making awkward small-talk. Cal Cartwright stops by a few times as well, his cheerful demeanor standing out sharply in the strained, quiet atmosphere that's become the norm in the Donner household.

Aster is her most frequent visitor, though. She comes over every day, talking about things like her work at the Apothecary, the cake Graham made for her, or the new hair ribbon she bought the other day. Maysilee listens, but she can't deny that it's a little like hearing someone speak in a language that she's slowly forgetting. The world Aster lives in just seems so foreign already, because all Maysilee's world consists of now is blood and death and guilt.

Eventually, the awkward silences that she's become so used to with Madilyn start to crop up with Aster too, and Aster's visits grow farther and farther apart.

 _It's better this way_ , Maysilee reminds herself, watching Aster walk away for what might be the last time. _It's better this way._

But it still hurts.

* * *

It's just after the 57th Hunger Games that Aster shocks everyone by eloping with Brent Everdeen and moving to the Seam. (Maysilee hasn't spoken to Aster in months, and only hears the news because it's all that District Twelve talks about for weeks.)

Graham Mellark must be heartbroken, but it's not long afterwards that he marries Jan Elliot at the Justice Building. Maysilee hopes he'll be happy, but she puzzles over his choice because cold, angry Jan seems like the last person who would be a good match for the soft-spoken baker.

Maybe there's something in the water, though, because Cal Cartwright gets married next, almost right on the baker's heels, and even if Maysilee isn't close to her sister anymore, it doesn't take a genius to see that Madilyn and Gregor Undersee won't be far behind.

They're not, and Maysilee pays for the wedding. It takes more than a little persuasion on her part to get Madilyn to agree to that, but in the end, her sister finally allows it. Maysilee is pretty sure that Madilyn does it more for Gregor's sake than hers, though. Gregor is eyeing a nomination as Twelve's next Mayor, and having a lavish reception - with a few Capitol officials in attendance - only works in his favor.

As soon as Madilyn and Gregor are assigned a place of their own, Maysilee's parents decide to leave the Victors' Village and move back into their old apartment above the sweet shop. Her mother says it's because they want her to find someone like Madilyn has, and that's not likely to happen with her parents still living in her house. (It's not likely to happen at all, but Maysilee doesn't tell them that.) She sees the relieved looks in her parents' eyes when she doesn't protest the move, and wonders if they simply don't want to stay with the quiet, withdrawn woman their daughter has become.

The first night that they're gone, Maysilee takes some of the morphling that she keeps on-hand in case Madilyn needs it.

She doesn't use much. Just enough to take the edge off.

It's a bad idea and she knows it - she's seen the morphlings from Six, and she doesn't want to become like them. She's all Twelve has, and they need her to be clear-headed if the tributes are to have any chance at all. But, just for tonight, she decides to be selfish.

When she lays down a little while later, her head is swimming, her limbs are loose and relaxed, and there's morphling running through her veins.

She's not really surprised when Haymitch is suddenly there with her, crouching down beside her bed. He doesn't say anything, just reaches out and takes her hand in his, his thumb stroking comfortingly across her knuckles.

He did the same thing when he was dying, and that should worry her more than it does, but for a little while at least, she can pretend that she's not alone.

* * *

Shortly before the 58th Hunger Games, Madilyn comes to see her.

Maysilee isn't sure what to make of it, because Madilyn hasn't visited since she married Gergor. Maysilee invites her in, though, and they have coffee. Madilyn looks good. She cut her hair a few years ago, so that it rests a little below her shoulders. She's kept it that way since, but it catches Maysilee off-guard nonetheless, as if she still expects to look at her twin and see a reflection of herself.

But she doesn't. She hasn't since her Games, really, and the difference has only become more pronounced with time.

"How are you?" her sister asks as they sit down at the table.

Maysilee shrugs. "I'm fine."

Madilyn stares at her for a long moment, like she's trying to decide if Maysilee is lying.

"Of course you are," she agrees at last, an edge of _something_ slipping into her tone.

Maysilee ignores that and stares down into the coffee mug in front of her, tracing a finger around the rim. "How are your headaches?"

Now it's Madilyn's turn to shrug.

"The same as always. They come and go." Her lips curl up in a slightly bitter smile. "But I'm fine," she echoes deliberately.

The words sting, but Maysilee just nods in answer, and silence falls again.

Madilyn reaches for the dish of sugar and the small pitcher of cream sitting on the table, then adds some of each to her cup, mixing them into her coffee with a few graceful turns of her wrist.

"You're going to be an aunt," she says as she stirs. "I thought you might like to know."

It takes a moment for her sister's words to sink in, and when they do, Maysilee blinks.

"Oh," she says. "That's…good. Congratulations. To you and Gregor both."

Madilyn's mouth presses into a thin line, but she nods. "Thank you."

The silences returns, worse than before, and Maysilee isn't surprised when Madilyn gets up to leave before her coffee is finished. She says that she's getting another headache.

It might even be true.

Maysilee sees her to the door and watches her walk down the road that leads to Town…to the Mayor's mansion, because Gregor became the Mayor a few months ago, after old Mayor Wilson finally retired.

That's one thing, at least. As the child of the Mayor, her niece or nephew will want for nothing.

Her niece or nephew. Maysilee tries to wrap her mind around the idea, and she can't do it. She can't suppress the fear she feels either, because babies grow into children and children enter the Reaping. Maysilee swallows hard, images of tribute trains and silver coffins flitting through her mind unbidden.

(She takes another dose of morphling that night, but her hands are shaking long before she picks up the syringe.)

* * *

It's during the 59th Hunger Games that Chaff from Eleven sits down next to her at a table in the Victors' Lounge.

For a moment, Maysilee wonders if he's there to propose an alliance between their tributes, but then he takes something out of his pocket and slides it across the table with his remaining hand, using his body to hide the movement from the rest of the room.

Maysilee stares at it, her mouth suddenly dry.

It's a replica of her Mockingjay pin.

Her eyes dart to the camera that's nearby, one of several that are always in plain view in the Victors' Lounge - they're ostensibly for security purposes, but everyone in the Lounge knows who's really being watched.

Chaff sees where she's looking and leans a little closer. "Relax," he says, his voice low. "We're covered. As far as the Capitol is concerned, I'm still sitting at the bar."

His words send a chill down her spine for an entirely different reason, because now she knows what this must be about. He _is_ proposing an alliance, just an alliance of an entirely different kind. He can't be in this alone, either. He has friends - friends in high places if they can alter security footage.

Maysilee shakes her head and pushes the pin back towards Chaff. "I'm not interested."

The Victor from Eleven raises an eyebrow doubtfully. "You sure about that?" he challenges. "You wore that in the arena. You can't tell me that you didn't know what it meant."

"I knew," she confirms. "I knew, and I wore it anyway, and my sister's still paying for it."

"They could have done worse. She could be dead."

"Exactly." Maysilee meets the other Victor's gaze squarely. "That's why I'm not taking any chances."

Chaff studies her for a long moment, then nods once, reaches for the pin, and slips it back into his pocket.

"Fair enough," he says, standing up and turning to leave.

He doesn't approach her again.

* * *

Years pass.

Twenty-two more tributes pass too, making for an even forty since Maysilee won her own Games. Forty kids that she's escorted to their deaths.

It's not the sort of math that Maysilee ever imagined doing, but it's the only kind she has any use for now. She just prays that her niece won't be added to the tally, because this year will be Madge's first Reaping.

Madge comes to see her, actually, a few days before the Reaping is scheduled to take place.

Maysilee hasn't seen her since her birthday back in April, and she looks so grown up, like a young copy of Madilyn - a young copy of _herself_ \- that Maysilee just stares when she opens the door.

Madge tucks her hair behind her ear nervously, and gives an awkward little wave. "Hi, Aunt Maysilee."

That's finally enough to shake Maysilee out of her stupor and she steps back, welcoming her niece inside.

Madge looks around curiously - she hasn't been in Maysilee's house often - and Maysilee tries to imagine what she sees. It's clean - cleaning is one of things that Maysilee uses to fill her days now - and it hasn't changed much from what it was when the Capitol gave it to her. The furniture is in the same place, the paint colors are what they have always been, and the only decorations are the ones her mother put up long ago, when she and her family first moved in together.

Maysilee leads Madge into the living room, and they sit down on the couch, the one in front of the fireplace - the one by the wall where Haymitch likes to stand in her dreams, whenever he shows up here, in her house, and not in the arena.

Madge compliments her on having such a lovely home, and Maysilee has to smile a little, because it's obvious that Madge is indeed the Mayor's daughter - she falls back on manners when she's uneasy.

"Thank you," Maysilee returns. "Now, how about you tell me why you're here?"

She had to have come on her own, Maysilee knows. Madilyn wouldn't have sent her.

Madge bites her lip. "I…I was thinking about the Reaping, and then I couldn't _stop_ thinking about it, and I started walking, and well, you know all about the Games, more than anyone in the District, and I just…I wound up here."

She shrugs faintly, looking embarrassed, and Maysilee hides a wince. She'd suspected as much, given the timing, but that doesn't change the fact that the Games are the last thing she wants to talk about with her niece.

But if that's what Madge needs now, then she'll do it.

"Is there something specific you want to ask me about?"

Madge is silent for a long moment, her brow furrowed. Her gaze shifts between Maysilee and her hands which are folded in her lap.

"What is it like?" she begins at last. "Being in the Games, I mean."

Almost against her will, Maysilee reaches up to touch her neck, her fingers finding the spot on her throat where a mutt's beak had done the most damage. The skin is smooth and scar-free, thanks to the treatments the Capitol had given her after she won, but she can still feel it there - the phantom tug of pain.

She lets her hand drop and swallows hard.

"It's not easy to put into words. The Games are intense. Surreal." _And bloody_ , she adds in her head. _There's always so much blood_. But she doesn't say that out loud. "Sometimes, you don't have time to think. You just react. And sometimes…sometimes all you can _do_ is think."

Madge nods slowly, looking pale. "Daddy says my odds are good. I'll only have one slip in the bowl this year. But, I remember last year - a Victor's son was reaped. Am I…will I…I mean, are my odds worse…just because you're my aunt?"

Maysilee blinks, caught off-guard. Victors _know_ the Game is rigged, and Maysilee figures that most of the citizens in Panem suspect it too - there have been too many "coincidences" over the years. But she hadn't expected her twelve-year-old niece to put the pieces together herself.

For a moment, Maysilee is tempted to lie. Madge is frightened enough of the Reaping as it is, and she doesn't need to know that the Capitol might target her specifically. But Madge is obviously smart, and right now, in this moment, Maysilee can't help but see a little of herself in her niece - a little of the girl she used to be.

"Yes," she admits. "Your odds might be worse."

Madge is silent as she absorbs the news.

"But there's no guarantee," Maysilee adds, trying to reassure her. "I'm not a popular Victor. They ignore me for the most part."

"So, maybe…they'll ignore me too?"

Maysilee nods.

"What if they don't?"

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens."

She puts as much confidence into her voice as she can manage, and she must have succeeded because Madge seems to relax a little, the tense line of her shoulders not quite so defined. She's still pale, though, and Maysilee searches desperately for something else to say. She doesn't want to make her niece any false promises, offer her some empty platitude, or a token comment that-

Maysilee pauses suddenly.

A token.

A faint smile curls her lips. "Wait here," she says, and gets up from the couch, hurrying up the stairs to her room.

She walks over to her dresser and opens the small wooden chest there. For a moment, she eyes the compartment where she keeps a vial of morphling, but she reaches for the other side instead, where she keeps her jewelry. She doesn't have much - she's never been the type to wear it often. But she does have a few pieces, including the pin that used to be her Mockingjay. She ignores that, refusing to let her gaze linger on it for too long, and searches through the rest.

It doesn't take her long to find what she wants. It's a simple gold necklace with a pendant of faceted black onyx; thin lines of gold surround that pendant, forming a square.

It was a gift from the jeweler who'd recast her pin. He'd gotten a lot of good press afterwards, and he'd sent the necklace to her as a thank-you. The black onyx is supposed to represent a lump of coal, and the gold square surrounding it is meant to emulate the support beams of a mine. It was inspired by her costume in the tribute parade, the jeweler had explained in the note that came with it. Maysilee had hated wearing that stupid costume, and she hates it even more now that she's seen so many tributes dressed in it, but she's always liked the necklace.

It shines when Maysilee picks it up, the facets catching the light; she curls the chain around her fingers and carries it downstairs.

"Here," she says, holding it out to her niece.

Madge eyes her in confusion, but she takes the necklace obediently, her mouth opening a little in surprise as she examines it.

"It's beautiful."

"It's yours," Maysilee says simply. "Wear it for the Reaping. If…if your name is called, then you can use it as your token, and when you look at it, I want you to remember that even if I'm not in the arena with you, you're not alone, not really. I'll fight just as hard as you do."

Madge stares at the necklace for a moment longer, then surprises Maysilee by leaning forward suddenly and wrapping her arms around her in a hug. "Thank you," she whispers.

Maysilee hesitates a moment, then wraps her arms awkwardly around her niece in return. "You're welcome."

They stay that way for a long time, and when Madge finally lets go, Maysilee feels an odd mix of disappointment and relief.

Madge leans back on the couch, looking at the necklace again, letting it sit in her palm.

"Aunt Maysilee?" she says at last.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Mom…Mom says that you were different after you came back. That you changed a lot. Is that true?"

Something tightens in Maysilee's chest, but she gives the only possible answer she can.

"It is. You don't really come back from the Games, even if you win."

Madge thinks about that for a moment, then frowns and shakes her head. "I don't think I understand."

Maysilee smiles a sad sort of smile. "I hope you never do."

* * *

Madge isn't Reaped her first year, or the second, the third, or the fourth. By the fifth year, Maysilee is beginning to wonder if the niece of an unpopular Victor just isn't interesting enough to bother with.

So, when the name _Primrose Everdeen_ is called at the Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games, at first, all Maysilee feels is a guilty sort of relief. Then the name Everdeen finally registers, and her eyes dart to the roped off section for the spectators, quickly scanning crowd.

She hasn't seen Aster in years, and it takes a moment to recognize her. She looks worn, the beauty of her features faded like an old photograph that's sat too long in the sun. Gray is weaving its way through the blonde strands of her hair, and her skin has a gray tinge of its own from the coal dust that's settled in her pores. She's thin too, not as thin as those who are the poorest in the Seam, but she still looks as though a strong breeze could blow her over without trying.

It's such a drastic change from the woman Maysilee remembers that she almost wonders if she's wrong, and it's not really Aster after all. But it has to be her - she's the one wearing the devastated expression of shock.

The little girl - the little girl who must be Aster's daughter - is slowly making her way to the stage now. She's a tiny thing with two blonde braids, and she can't be older than twelve.

"Prim!" a hoarse voice shouts. "Prim!"

And then there's an older, dark-haired girl pushing herself through the crowd, struggling against the Peacekeepers that try to hold her back. Maysilee sees the specter of Brent Everdeen in her face right away.

"No!" she shouts again, louder this time, desperate. "I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!"

Maysilee watches as the little girl argues with her sister until she's finally picked up and carried away by a tall Seam boy who emerges from the eighteen-year-old section. She's still screaming out her denials as the Peacekeepers escort her older sister to the stage.

Katniss, Maysilee learns. Her name is Katniss.

It's all Maysilee can do to keep her expression blank when the District salutes Katniss in a final gesture of respect, because she knows what's likely to happen to her, the daughter of the woman who used to be her best friend, and Maysilee feels like a blade of ice has slipped between her ribs.

When the Reaping continues, and Effie Trinket calls out _Peeta Mellark_ , that blade seems to twist.

* * *

It's hard enough knowing who her tributes are, knowing that no matter what she does, at least one person - probably two people - that she cares about will soon be grieving the loss of a child.

But Maysilee's job is only made harder by the fact that both Katniss and Peeta have potential. Katniss's skills with a bow and her knowledge about survival will give her an incredible advantage in the arena. Plus, she's already garnered the Capitol's interest by volunteering for her sister. But Peeta can't be dismissed either. He might not know how to survive in the wilderness, but he's strong, obviously intelligent, and he has a way with words that's impossible to ignore.

Maysilee has never had two potential Victors on her hands, never had to make that sort of choice.

She has to make it now just the same, and in the end, she chooses Katniss. Years in the Games tell her that the girl has a better shot, and she won't deny that emotion factors into her decision as well. She'd been friends with Graham, yes, but her friendship with Aster had run so much deeper. That does nothing to stop the guilt she feels, knowing that she's essentially writing off a boy who's done nothing wrong, simply because she hadn't been close enough to his father. But, she can't change the past...and she can't stop picturing the way that Aster had looked at the Reaping either.  Aster had even come see her afterwards, reaching her just before she'd boarded the train.

Her eyes had been red, and she'd been so terribly pale. Faint tremors had wracked her too-thin frame, but desperation must have given her strength because her grip was firm when she stepped forward and caught Maysilee's wrist.

"Save my daughter, May," she'd begged, the old nickname sounding strange after all these years. "Please save my daughter."

Her voice isn't the only one arguing in Katniss's favor.

Maysilee has seen the necklace that's now hanging around Katniss's neck, the familiar glint of black and gold shouting at her without words. Her niece wants Katniss to win, wants Maysilee to fight for her just like she'd promised to fight for Madge herself.

Even Cinna, the new stylist, keeps talking about how inspiring Katniss is, how her story is going to touch the heart of the nation. (Maysilee nods and agrees, but inside, she's uneasy - there's a glint in Cinna's eyes every time he says that, one that makes her think of Mockingjays and altered security footage.)

But, Peeta, it turns out, is the loudest voice of all.

"I know she can win," he tells Maysilee privately, "and I want to help her do it."

He obviously means it and Maysilee frowns. "Why? You could have a real chance of your own. Why give that up for Katniss?"

Peeta takes a deep breath, like he's bracing himself, then looks Maysilee in the eyes and says, "Because I'm in love with her. I have been for a long time."

He tells her the whole story then, of how he heard Katniss sing on the first day of school, and how he's been trying to work up the courage to talk to her since. He looks so much like his father in that moment, his expression filled with the same soft longing that Maysilee saw in Graham whenever Aster was nearby, and Maysilee knows that she has to give him what he wants.

"Alright," she says when he's finished. "Alright. We'll play things your way."

Peeta smiles, obviously relieved by her answer, and Maysilee feels the blade in her side press a little deeper.

* * *

Choosing strategies for her tributes is fairly easy once Maysilee knows who she'll be focusing the majority of her resources on.

Katniss is the type who will want to go it alone, at least at first. It's probably better that way, since there are few in the Games who will be able to keep up with her. Peeta, however, will need allies, because he knows almost nothing about wilderness survival, and a week of training won't do much to change that. Ultimately, Maysilee decides that his best bet is to join the Careers - and that's certainly a piece of advice she never imagined giving a tribute. She believes that Peeta can pull it off, though. Physically, he's skilled enough to be dangerous, and given his silver tongue, he should be able to convince the Careers that he's as cold-blooded as they are. It will also put him in the best position to play a double agent; he can pretend to help the Careers, while actually working to protect Katniss instead.

One thing still worries Maysilee, though - for all her good qualities, Katniss just isn't very personable and it shows. By and large, she's awkward, hostile, and standoffish, and she needs something to soften those hard edges if she's going to have real universal appeal.

Peeta declaring his feelings during his interview helps quite a bit, and it also generates more buzz than Twelve has had in years, but Maysilee isn't sure if it's enough. Katniss alone won't have the same allure as Katniss _and_ Peeta, but Katniss _and_ Peeta will only last so long in the arena, because only one of them can win.

Maysilee almost considers telling her tributes to ally with each other after all, but if she's right about them, they'll both go far in the Games, and if they're together, they might very well be the last ones standing.

She thinks about Haymitch, the ghost that still appears so often in her dreams. He'd already been fatally wounded when she'd reached him, and that was bad enough. If Katniss and Peeta make it to the end, and they're both still relatively healthy…

No, she's not about to inflict that on her tributes.

Some things are worse than dying.

* * *

Their strategy works. For almost an entire week, it works.

Then the Careers trap Katniss up a tree, the tracker jacker nest drops, and Peeta gets his wish - he saves Katniss at his own expense.

He's not going to make it, and Maysilee knows that. You don't survive that kind of wound in the Hunger Games, not without treatment, but there's nothing she can do for him. Even if she wants to help him - and she does - she can't because the cost of the medicine he needs is astronomical.

She tries anyway.

She does everything she knows to do, spending every free moment courting additional sponsors (the extra money will go to Katniss if - when - Peeta dies) and making as many deals as possible, some legal and some not.

But it's not enough.

After days of languishing in the mud beside the river, Peeta's cannon finally sounds.

Katniss stares up at the night sky when his picture appears, tears filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. It's another hard blow, one coming only a couple days after the death of the little girl from Eleven, and Maysilee can see that Katniss's head isn't in the Game anymore, not really. She's listless, even a little careless, only going through the motions as she makes her way around the arena.

Maysilee knows she has to change that, and tries to send Katniss a parachute, one with some food and a slip of paper that has Primrose Everdeen's name on it. She hopes it will be enough to remind the girl of what she's really fighting for.

But the Gamemakers started screening the sponsor gifts after Eleven sent that bread to Katniss as a thank you, and while they allow the food, they tell Maysilee that all messages between mentors and tributes are now strictly forbidden.

So, Maysilee can only watch as Katniss picks at the meal she received, eating it half-heartedly before she climbs a tree and falls asleep.

Cato, the tribute from Two, finds her the next morning, just as she sets out.

Messages may now be forbidden, but body armor is clearly acceptable because Cato is wearing a full set, and the arrow that Katniss aims at his heart bounces harmlessly aside. (The armor must have been even more expensive than Peeta's medicine, but either he has incredibly generous sponsors or the Capitol has decided that Katniss Everdeen is too dangerous to live.)

Cato smirks at Katniss's shock, but he wastes no time lunging forward, his sword in hand, thrusting it into her chest.

The sound of her cannon follows.

* * *

The trip back to District Twelve seems longer than ever.

Maysilee doesn't want to sleep. Not that she sleeps much anyway, but she's sure that from now on, Haymitch won't be the only one haunting her dreams, because she already sees Katniss and Peeta every time she closes her eyes.

Maysilee lays there in her cabin instead, trying not the think about the two silver coffins a few cars behind her, or about the devastated friends - and grieving niece - that she'll have to face when she gets home. But she can't stop herself from going over everything again and again in her mind, retracing every step, questioning every decision she made.

There had to be _something_ she'd missed, something more she could have done.

Would Haymitch have seen it, if he'd been in her place?

He might have, but then, maybe it doesn't really matter.

Haymitch has been gone for years, lost to the Games just like Katniss and Peeta - just like so much of her own life.

Feeling hollow, Maysilee reaches for her bedside table and takes out the vial of morphling she has hidden in the drawer.

She stares at the clear liquid for a moment, turning the vial over in her hand, then she picks up a syringe and injects the whole thing.

* * *

The next year passes in a haze.

(The morphling probably has something to do with that - she's not as bad as the Victors from Six, but she's still using more of it than she ever thought she would.)

Before Maysilee knows it, she's sitting up on the Reaping stage beside her brother-in-law, listening numbly as Effie Trinket extols the virtues of the Capitol and explains how this year is the special celebration known as the Quarter Quell.

Twenty-five years. It's been twenty-five years since she won, and she's lost fifty tributes.

When Effie talks about what an honor it is that District Twelve produced the last Quell Victor, Maysilee almost laughs. An honor. If this is honor, she doesn't want it.

She tunes out the rest of Effie's speech, letting her gaze drift around the square instead, though she avoids the section for the thirteen-year-olds where little Primrose Everdeen is bound to be, looking pale and solemn and infinitely sad. She avoids looking at the spectators' section too, but she can feel the weight of the Graham Mellark's sorrowful gaze just the same. (Aster's not there - she died a few months after the 74th Hunger Games, when an influenza epidemic swept the Seam. Maysilee is sure that it was the grief that really killed her, but it's easier to blame the flu.)

Maysilee keeps her gaze locked on the anxious crowd in front of her, even as Effie walks over to the girl's Reaping bowl with a chirped "Ladies first," and she can't help thinking about the odds…about a flurry of pink feathers.

She could have died that day, all those years ago…maybe she _should_ have died.

A moment later, when it's Madge's name that rings out over the loud speakers, she wishes that she had.

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Take care and God bless!
> 
> -Laughter


End file.
